


Only in a dream we are at one

by Nelja-in-English (Nelja)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Do Not Archive, Dream Sex, Dreams, Dubious Consent, Leitner Books, M/M, Poetry, Sex Pollen, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 08:53:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15748407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelja/pseuds/Nelja-in-English
Summary: Martin finds a Leitner at Poetry Club. It gets out of hand.





	Only in a dream we are at one

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a poem by Christina Rossetti.  
> Thanks to sugarboat for the beta!

Martin doesn’t come to Poetry Club every Saturday. But it’s nice. People care about his opinions on what they write. He knows it helps that what he has to say is mostly positive. It’s still a good feeling.

People listen to what he writes too. It’s the only place where he can talk about his… problems at work, even if they believe it’s all a metaphor. At least they can empathize with the state of mind. Seems that a few people think that a wormy woman waiting at your door is Death. They’re wrong but not _that_ wrong.

There is no one his age today. A few old people and teenagers, a middle aged woman. There is a lot of tea, and it is good. There are book recs, even if they don’t all have the same tastes.

There is also the not-recs place, a small shelf where people leave books that disappointed them and hope they’ll find some appreciation in new hands.

It’s what Martin is looking at now. He didn’t come for a while, and there are a few new ones, with the old school anthology everyone has already read, the Dante edition with nice pictures waiting for someone who understands Italian, and the three copies of a self-published book that a former member left. There is some contemplative evocation of the English country and traditions, it’s not Martin’s type, maybe Ms. Collins will take it if she wasn’t the one who left it here. And there is some book with a title in some slavic language, close enough to Polish that Martin can understand the title, “I’ve dreamed of you for too long” or maybe “too often.”

There’s no author name, probably an anthology then. The cover is creamy white, decorated with flowers and curling, bifurcating vines, except that the flowers are green and the vines are of a weird, unnatural orange. Martin opens a page at random, reads a few lines.

It’s about love and longing, like he expected from the title. Martin always loved these, even before… well, before Jon. Before he burned like in these books, not for a few weeks or months but for years, a flame never wavering. Before he loved someone so much that not being loved back was secondary in front of the opportunity to help him and support him even a little bit.

Martin would die for Jon. He knows because it’s not an empty question, because he has reasons to fear that one day, Elias will just ask this from him. And he will do it.

But despite all the ways he tries to convince himself that his love is pure and selfless, Martin still wants Jon very, very much.

And the poetry he’s reading talks about sincere, unaltered desire. For a man, even, that you can meet in dreams, and Martin’s blushing hard, and he really needs to know who wrote it. He’s almost sure it’s, unfortunately, a woman. But he still notes the page number, and checks the beginning for a table of contents.

He had never seen the plate “From the Library of Jurgen Leitner” in real life. He still jumps, recognizing it, and closes back the book like it just bit him. He notices only then that the vines on the cover are bifurcating just a bit too often, smaller and smaller, like fractals. That flowers on a book cover shouldn’t have a smell, especially not such a heady, intoxicating one.

Well, it could be worse. He’s not dead, and he doesn’t feel like he’s dying either.

“My boss at work collects books from this edition,” he explains when no one asked, like someone planned to fight him over it. They don’t. These are free books.

He would run to the Institute. But it’s Saturday afternoon and even Jon won’t be at work now. So he’s got to keep it at home. He has nowhere to put it under key, so he just uses a shoebox closed with rubber bands and keeps it in the wardrobe. He won’t read another line. Such a waste. It was good poetry - well, poetry Martin enjoyed at least.

 _Your sharp cheekbones, digging small holes in my heart, small nests for my desire._ Sounded better in not-exactly-Polish.

He wonders what would happen to someone who read it from beginning to end. It’s not a good thing to wonder.

He dreams about Jon this night.

He dreams about a thin, wiry body against his, about soft kisses on his neck, words of hesitant kindness whispered in his ear, then hands all over his avid body, making him burn with need. He dreams about a hard cock opening him up, about writhing and begging and crying with happiness.

He wakes up hard and wanting, so frustrated when the dream Jon disappears and leaves him with his imagination. He’s used to running on it, but he finds it so lacking right now.

He wants to read more of the book.

He feels like if he did, he would fall back into the ecstasy of his dream, not only the pleasure but the happy illusion of being wanted back.

_Rolled in your hands, warping me into something else, angular creature of ecstasy and dreams._

He’s not stupid though, so he just takes his cock in his hand, and jerks off slowly while trying to remember the dream, to commit it to long-term memory, to play it again and again. It’s not very successful; when he comes at last, it’s weak and unsatisfying.

It’s not the first time this kind of dream has happened to him. He still gazes reproachfully at a specific point inside his wardrobe.

He’s not sure he wants to stay at home this day, so he goes to a coffee shop to write to his mother, pay a few bills for him and her, maybe write a bit of poetry. He’ll clean the bathroom next week.

He still thinks about Jon a lot, but when doesn’t he? He hopes that Jon will be even a bit impressed when he comes back with a Leitner - even if, to be frank, Martin did absolutely nothing impressive in this story.

He thinks again about his dream, and sighs. He could think about writing about it - for himself, of course, not even for the club - if he wasn’t sure it’s already been done, in a book he mustn’t read.

When he comes home, he’s decided that rather than writing, he will read one of those he already owns, one of the good ones, to get more conventional inspiration. But when he opens one, the pages and even the lines are in disorder, all jumbled together.

“Seriously?” he grumbles in frustration. He still reads it, an anthology even. It’s not like he remembers it, but it’s not that bad, funny even at times. At best, the books will heal when he removes the troublemaker. At worst, he can replace them.

“You think you can frighten me?” he asks to his wardrobe. “I had worms here.” Maybe it’s not the right thing to say, to think. Maybe the book _should_ frighten him more and tempt him less. Once again, he wonders when this became his normal life.

He dreams about Jon. Of course he does. He dreams about kissing his mouth and being kissed back, Jon so skilled, teasing him. He dreams about lying in bed while Jon is kissing his eyes, his throat, and then going down. _I love you, Martin_ , Jon says, and he’s kissing the inside of his thighs, then the tip of his cock - Martin’s never been harder. He begs Jon for more, and just gets a warm and amused smile, with new soft kisses on his cock - his heart is beating so fast - and then Jon takes him in his mouth…

When he wakes up, he almost screams in frustration, he almost cries. A look at his alarm clock tells him he can’t go to sleep again. Maybe he could jerk off, but it doesn’t seem worth it. A cold shower will do.

He wants to dream again. He wants to never wake up. Instead he takes some breakfast and packs his shoebox for work, resisting the temptation to check if the book is still there, if the plate is still there, if the intoxicating words are still there.

“Is it having you here?” he asks. “Or is it because I’ve read part of you?” The book doesn’t answer. Martin feels less reassured and more frustrated about it than he should be.

“Well, it’s over for you. I won’t have you home again. Artefact Storage for you. Or maybe even book burning, if Elias doesn’t like you.” And then he will see if the dreams stop. He doesn’t want them to. But he clearly needs it. 

He puts the shoebox in a bag, and takes the Tube with an irrational fear of having it stolen on the way. But he eventually makes it to the Archives without any incident. He’s very early but he knows Jon will be, too.

As he passes the Archives door, he realizes he hasn’t planned at all how he will explain all this. And already he’s sitting in front of Jon, showing his shoebox, and saying, “I’ve found a Leitner.”

Jon almost jumps on his chair. “What? Where? Did you read it?”

“At Poetry Club,” he explains, only a bit embarrassed. “I’ve only read a few lines, and I’m not even sure I understood all of it.”

“How did it happen?”

“There’s nothing to tell, really.”

“You won’t have me believe that there is nothing of note in an encounter with a Leitner. _Tell me_.”

Of course, why would be Jon be interested in the book itself? Apart from being glad it won’t hurt anyone else. It’s for the guys upstairs. What Jon wants is the story.

A tape recorder turns on by itself. Martin is the one to say the words, he doesn’t know why. _Statement of Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant..._

For a short while it feels nice. Feeling the words spring out of his mouth, effortlessly clear, sounding right. Having Jon’s undivided attention. He describes the content of the book as poetry about love and obsession, telling all the words he remembers. _Lost in the dark maze of your eyes, even more lost when it disappears._ The spicier parts too. He realizes only now he remembers every word.

And then he adds _It made me think of you_. 

He didn’t mean to say this, but it’s the truth. Jon doesn’t seem to react, and Martin describes how he discovered the plate, saw the fractals - fractals are bad, right? - and took it home.

He opens the box. Jon looks as the cover with interest, but he doesn’t open the book, of course.

Martin intended to stop his tale here, before the dreams.

But as he tries to smile and wrap it up with _and then you can see I took it_ here he discovers, to his great shame, that he can’t stop. 

Martin had never planned to tell Jon what he feels, but he might have had fantasies about it. None of them involved him telling him about explicit dreams he had of him, in too much detail. His cheeks are burning with shame. And the words keep coming, and Martin can just hope Jon won’t notice how aroused he is right now, as the visions live again on his tongue.

He can’t take statements directly - well, not in a magical way like Jon does - but he knows that when he reads he’s feeling the statement giver’s feelings. Does Jon feel a bit of his experience right now? Not that it would change anything.

He has a short respite talking about his poor muddled books, and when he gets to the second dream he’s almost used to the shame. And then he’s almost finished.

 _Statement ends_ , Jon says, and Martin can stop talking, but it’s too late. He manages not to cry, at least.

Jon doesn’t say a word about his miserable confession, and the fear is almost worse than outright rejection would be.

“Are you mad at me?” Martin manages to ask.

“Why would I be? You behaved quite responsibly. Thank you, Martin. I will ask to someone who hasn’t been exposed to file it.” He closes the shoebox again.

At any other time, this half-hearted praise would be enough to warm Martin’s heart. But it seems to him they’re missing an important point. 

“I mean, for thinking about you this way… and telling you…” And for the way Martin is looking at the curve of his lips right now. _Lips further away than galaxies in the night, out of touch, but why would I want the day to come again?_

“Why would I blame you for something outside your control?” It’s cold, but it’s a bit of a reassurance at least. “Leitner books can do far worse to you. Will you want to have a follow up later, about whether the dreams and the… feelings vanish? They probably will. We belong to the Institute, whether we like it or not. We’re kind of protected against…” He waves at the book but looks vaguely guilty, like he said too much.

It’s the first time Martin feels _angry_ at Jon for being so incredibly oblivious. For assuming it’s all some kind of supernatural happening, and Martin’s love means nothing, when it burned his lips getting out.

He wants to cry again. He wants to scream. He wants to throw the book at Jon’s head.

He forces himself to stay calm.

“Why do you assume,” he asks softly, as coldly as he can manage, “that these are not natural, unrelated thoughts and dreams? It could be, couldn’t it?”

He’s headed for a catastrophe. He had an easy escape after telling his dreams, and he refused to take it. Part of him is screaming at himself.

Jon looks away, like he was the one who should be embarrassed.

“Unlike you, I didn’t even open it,” he says slowly. “I only looked at the cover, smelled it, and listened to the parts you quoted to me. And I’m already feeling the effects. It’s quite… strong, and not a good moment to play the sceptic. You’re usually the one telling me this.”

For at least three seconds, Martin can’t wrap his mind around what Jon is saying.

“You mean you… want me?”

“I will describe my impressions when I record the post-research conclusion, maybe, but now is not the time…” Is Jon actually blushing? He didn’t have to tell Martin all this...

And Martin’s getting brave, and he’s getting stupid.

“Because if you _do_ want me,” he says, too fast to change his mind midsentence, “you have to know that I’m already yours. Not in a supernatural way. I’ve always been. Please have me. Just right now. Take me. Do whatever you want to me. _Please_.”

He gets closer to Jon, around the desk. Is it true he would have dared all of this without any external influence? Is the Leitner playing with his mind when he gets on his knees? Or it is just an excuse, future deniability about all that he has already wanted to do? 

He kisses Jon’s hand with reverence. Jon shudders, but Martin thinks he’s shivering harder, already fully hard, only with his statement, this brief touch, and painful hope. 

He kisses Jon’s hand again, on the palm this time, puts it against his cheek. Jon doesn’t remove it, and strokes his skin slowly, then his hair, playing with the curls. Martin’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn't know what will happen next, but he’ll cherish this memory forever.

He blushes when he realizes he’s close enough to see the outline of Jon’s semi-erect cock through his trousers. He puts a hand on his thigh, very close, and Jon doesn’t ask him to stop. He follows the line with the tip of his finger, then starts to massage it through the fabric, feels it getting bigger, almost feels the warmth under his hand…

“Martin, wait!” 

He removes his hand very quickly, despite the feeling of loss in his gut. He doesn't want to hurt Jon. He just wants to please him, to give him what he needs right now. To give him everything.

“We’re at work,” Jon protests weakly. Martin wants to protest, to say that they’re early and outside work hours. They don’t have to work and no one will catch them. Except Elias but it would be all the same if they were at home, and… no, not a good argument.

“Turn the tape recorder on again and count it as follow up research?” he suggests. He makes himself blush again. It was meant to be a joke, but it actually arouses him.

And the tape recorder actually does this. It agrees with Martin. It’s part comforting, part awkward.

“We don’t know if it won’t make things worse!” Jon takes Martin’s hand, puts it back on his thigh. Martin is not even sure Jon noticed. 

“I don’t think so,” he manages to say. “I think… I think the book wants us to lose ourselves in it, or in dreams. Having this in real life should… anchor us, I hope?” It’s certainly the first time he has no desire to open the book again since he found it.

“Martin, get up!” Jon commands. Martin tries not to lean on Jon too much as he obeys. He tries not to look at him, to hide his disappointment. It was a bad idea anyway. It would have been taking advantage. Jon doesn’t feel anything for him. Jon would have regretted it. 

So he’s fully surprised when Jon gets up too, takes his face in his hands again, and kisses him. 

It’s chaste and tentative, but Martin moans into it. Shock, happiness, guilt and lust together almost make his brain short-circuit. And then he kisses back, caressing Jon’s mouth with his tongue, sucking on his lips.

He can’t stop. Even if it’s wrong, even if Jon will resent him later. He just can’t listen to reason and make all of this stop. It’s dirty and warped, not like he wanted it, but it still has too many sharp fragments of his dearest dreams in it.

“Please don’t go too fast,” Jon asks, stopping the kiss. “This is so, ah, quite overwhelming to me…”

“Yes, yes! Anything you want!” Martin answers, quite short of breath. 

Slowly, he starts to open Jon’s shirt, touching the skin just a bit each time. His chest is white and bony, scattered with half-faded worm scars, and still he’s so beautiful that Martin feels his mouth water, his heart ache. He can’t stop looking. He wants to keep this image in his mind forever. 

“You’re beautiful…” he sighs.

“I’m not.”

“To me, you are the most beautiful person in the world.” Martin leans down and kisses Jon’s neck, while his hands play on his back, his stomach, his torso. His skin is so soft. He brushes a nipple, and Jon’s breath catches in his throat.

“Too fast?” 

“No, I don’t… do it again.”

Martin is too glad to comply, making Jon moan under his fingers. He can see Jon is fully hard now, and starts to open his trousers. He wants more of it.

“Wait!” Jon asks again. Martin freezes. “Remove your clothes first.”

Martin feels quite self-conscious - he knows he’s not attractive, and a bit too fat - but doing what Jon is asking from him feels like sparkling pleasure in his brain. So he removes his shirt and shoes and trousers, and stands only in his boxers. His erection is fully visible now. He looks at Jon with a question in his eye, and Jon nods, so he bares himself completely. It’s not that bad. The way Jon looks at him, it’s even freeing. He looks like himself and he’s still wanted, it’s nice, and he can’t begin to imagine how good it would be if no dark magics were involved.

And then he goes back to touching Jon, kisses his neck, strokes his skin, puts his hand down his trousers. Jon gasps. His cock is pulsing under Martin’s fingers, hot and wanting, a drop of precome at the tip. Martin starts to circle the head slowly, teasingly.

“Stop,” Jon asks again.

Martin does, removes his hand, even if he feels so frustrated he could cry.

But Jon gets close, puts his arms around his neck, and the world is all good again.

“I’m sorry, Martin…” His words are all slurred, like he was drunk. He never talks this way. “I’m asking you to stop because I can’t, you understand. It’s not that it doesn’t feel good. Every time I try to restrain myself I need you more. But I’m so bad at this. What do you want, Martin?”

Martin wants something he can’t have, he wants this to last forever. Of course he won’t say it. It’s so good to be just here. How does the book work? Does it make Jon like him too, or does he just want him? He doesn’t dare to ask. He doesn’t even dare to say _I love you_ , even knowing Jon will blame it on magic. He just smells his hair and holds him tight. He hopes it will make him understand.

“Just…” he asks. “Just touch me.”

Jon’s hands slide on his back, go down to his hips, land on his waist. Martin shivers all over. He wants to curl against Jon, but he also wants to leave room between them, because now Jon is aiming at his cock. So they end up in a confused mix of legs and arms, Martin’s back leaning against the desk.

It’s a bit embarrassing, how sensitive and needy he is. Jon is stroking him with the fingers of both hands, so softly that it feels even better without any lubrication, every featherlight touch firing sparkles in his brain. He kisses Jon’s face all over with lots of enthusiasm and little actual skill, distracted as he is. 

His hand finds Jon’s cock again, and starts stroking it. There’s a bit of awkward fumbling as they give each other silent hints of their favorite rhythms, but they manage to find something really good, and Martin comes all over Jon’s long, thin hands, moaning and panting. He doesn’t want to neglect Jon, so he keeps jerking him in long strokes, maybe a little too tightly. Or maybe not, since Jon comes too, twitching, with a sigh.

They’re a mess. They were less than experts at it. And still, it’s the best sex Martin ever had, because it’s Jon, and to be fair because his sex history has not been the most brilliant thing.

On his fingers, he tastes the salty and bitter flavor of Jon’s pleasure, savoring it. And then he takes Jon’s hands - who clearly has no idea of what to do with them - in his, and starts to lick them too, cleaning them with care, sucking on the fingers just a little too long.

Jon is getting very red.

“I think we could probably put our clothes back on,” he stammers, and Martin understands the effects of the book probably passed. Not that he would notice. He will love Jon forever.

“Yes, you’re right.” Martin feels so embarrassed he could run to his clothes, but he stops himself, and tries to do it as fast as he can without seeming desperate. Jon is turning his back to him as he buttons his shirt, so Martin doesn’t have too. He’s no longer aroused, not really, but seeing his thin figure still makes his heart burst with longing.

It seems like what happened was only a dream. No, no, it was real! Ephemeral, but still real!

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon says, looking in his direction but not meeting his eyes. “I feel much better.” He has a short, forced laugh. “I’m sorry.”

For what? For doing this, or for informing Martin that it won’t happen again? He’s gentle about it at least, and Martin regrets he can’t allow a last hug, a last kiss on the cheek.

“I am too,” he lies. Not exactly lies. He didn’t say about what. 

Jon turns the tape recorder off. Martin hopes he can make a copy of this part of the tape. Who else would want to listen to it?

Jon is still looking at Martin’s feet. “The problem is not you, not even… this. It’s that I hate not being myself, you understand! So I have to ask…”

“I will never tell anyone!” Martin promises. “I’ll pretend it never happened.”

Jon looks at him in surprise. “Oh yes, that too! But I meant, don’t tell me the words again.” His voice is intense as he takes Martin’s arm, and for an instant his fingers dig into his skin though his shirt. Then he lets go, and asks, seeming lost instead, “please.”

Martin looks at him in stupefaction. Of course he would never! And Jon can’t even guess that, and thinks he has to ask… “What do you… What are you… I’m not a monster, Jon!”

And as he says this he feels like he knows what happens if you read the whole book, and it’s exactly this. A monster. Not only mixing the reality with your dreams, not being able to tell one from the other, but imposing your dreams on other people. He knows this with certitude and without reason, and as he understands better what happened, he becomes very pale. Jon might know this too.

“It was all an accident,” he insists. “Please don’t be afraid of me, Jon!” It would be even worse, he thinks, than having Jon angry at him. “You said it, I belong to the Institute! Not to whichever stupid book!”

 _I belong to you_ , he thinks.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. He never wanted this, not like this. He would not have done it if he knew. It’s a question he has to ask himself, true, but he knows the answer!

Jon looks at him for a long time, intently, like he was reading into his soul. It feels weirdly good.

“You’re right,” Jon concludes. “I trust you.” 

Martin stumbles out of the office before Jon can change his mind. They won’t talk about it again. He promised.

He wants to keep this memory forever, and he wants to forget it ever happened -- and hopefully one day the warped poetry will fade from his mind, and he can pretend to himself it was a dream all along.


End file.
